The Heart is Deceitful above All Things (25 page)

‘Tell me what you are.' He snaps another one on but continues to caress my cheek.

‘Uhh . . . a dirty whore . . .' I want to bury my face in his palm as his other hand begins to twist the clamps and snap more on. How can I explain pain that burns like torture but soothes and excites more than a caress or kiss? His finger traces my lips and dips in and out of
my mouth. The rest of his fingers tap on the outside. I suck his finger as it slides in and out of my mouth.

‘You fucking cocktease!' His hand pulls away and slaps my other cheek loudly, and it feels like a punch. I blink away the tears rimming my eyes. He pulls at the chains. ‘Tell me! You faggot whore!'

‘I'm a fucking dirty whore cocksucker . . .' My chest tries to curl up against the pain like warped plywood. He walks behind me.

‘It's time for you to learn.'

‘Yes.' I ball my fists in the air and open my eyes wide to the brick wall in front of me. ‘I need to repent.' My blood throbs.

‘Yes, you do, 'cause you've been a very naughty boy, haven't you?'

‘Make me pay, sir,' I whisper. I hear him pick up the belt.

‘It's time for you to cry.'

‘Oh, he'll cry!' My mother squeezes and twists my wrist.

‘Never done seen a thief, young or old so bold-face remorseless,' the white-haired security guard says, and wags his finger at me. The steak and beer six-pack from my knapsack sit on the table in front of me. ‘See all the trouble you put your poor mother to?!'

The young frizzy blond checker that busted me shakes her head at me.

‘Steals it for his no-good gang friends.'

‘Oh, we don't let gang members in this store, ma'am.' The manager quickly shines his shoes on the back of his pants legs.

I feel my mother smiling at him. She fans herself with her hand. ‘Well, that's a good thing, sir . . .' She crosses her legs.

‘We have special services for them at our church, the Virgin of Perpetual Love and Mercy, but all in vain, I reckon.'

She sniffles, and I can't help but laugh. Her hand reaches out fast and slaps my cheek. I keep my grin despite myself; I know I'll pay later.

‘Yes, ma'am, the police won't do a thing to help you, ma'am, 'cause his age . . . he is amazin'.' The manager leans down over my face. He smells of tuna and pickles. ‘Have you no shame, boy?'

My mother clears her throat. ‘He's been a bad boy since his father passed, few years back, that big blaze? Was a firefighter, over Tallahassee.' Murmurs of sympathy. ‘Thank you, Lord rest his soul. Boy hasn't had the father he badly needs to give guidance and discipline.'

I spurt out a laugh at the thought of her being married to a firefighter. Her hand smashes across my face again.

The manager clears his throat. ‘Well, I think this is the best way to handle this, ma'am.'

‘Mary.' My mother nods.

‘Mary, Howard.' He reaches out and shakes my mother's hand a little too long.

‘Howard, sorry we meet in such a way, but I'm
sure it will help save my boy more than police or I can.'

I roll my eyes and groan. My mother's nails dig into my wrist. ‘You're an evil boy, you thank Mr Marsh.'

‘Thanks,' I say flatly, and grind my teeth.

The checker girl flashes her braces and flips her hair. ‘We should whoop all the shoplifters like him.'

‘Way it used to be, and hardly anybody thieved,' the guard grumbles. I look up and see two bag boys, a little older than me, peering in wide-eyed through a broken, small, one-way mirror. ‘Well, no time like the present.'

My mom stands and pulls me over to the table. My heart pounds louder. ‘Please,' I whisper.

‘Oh, now we see the remorse,' Howard gloats. He opens his belt. ‘Soon you'll see the tears.'

My mother jerks me forward. ‘Take down your pants.' I look up at her, and her eyes flash a private message of rage. She didn't tell me to get caught.

‘Excuse me,' Howard says to my mother as he pulls the belt from the loops.

I stare at the checkout girl biting her lip. ‘Oh, I'll leave . . .' She starts to get up.

‘Oh no, darling!' My mother waves her back. ‘He stole in front of you, so he'll pay in front of you.'

I look over to the boys in the mirror and point. My mother shakes her head and smiles slightly at me. I feel everyone's stares, and it's like heat, my body shivers, and like Batman sliding down his tunnel, I am suddenly
transformed to endure the impossible. I am able to lean over the table and pull my pants below my underwear. But I pull as much as possible of my jeans in front of me, and I pray and pray. At some point I feel Howard's belt beating me, as he will almost every other day as my new loving father, till we move out of his trailer three and a half months later, stealing all his cash, gold cuff links, and school ring.

I pray during my punishment. I pray so hard, I drown out the horrible whipping sound. I pray that God, or Satan, or whoever, won't let them see how sinful and repulsive and bad I truly am. I pray something won't let them see what my mother knows and has tried to punish me for but which only worsens. And the tears that eventually come burn through me and only heighten it all.

For hidden in my bunched-up jeans is my erection, like a gleaming badge of guilt, waiting to be discovered and ripped from me.

The belt is slamming into me all over, my back, ass, and thighs, and the tears are streaming, and confessions of every sin and every evil thought or action I ever did or almost did pour out from my mouth. But I cry harder and harder as the truth washes over me. Even as he takes the belt to between my legs and the pain is unbearable, I'm like an opportunistic mosquito, sucking blood down from the punishing hand of God, reaching down from heaven. I am still excited even though my thing has long
been cured of its ability to have erections. I beg for it harder and harder so perhaps I can outrun it, but like my shadow, it is always next to me. It follows me.

As I hang from the gray bars, swaying, wet, and throbbing, I recognize the scent from earlier as blood. His switchblade at my crotch slices like I begged him, to try and help save me. One hand caressing, one hand cutting.

I remember when I saw Peter Pan when I was little. After all the other kids wanted to reenact the battles of the lost boys, pirates, and Indians, all I could think about was the part where Peter Pan sits still while Wendy takes a sharp needle and, with concern and maybe love, sews his shadow onto his feet. And I wonder if the pain excited him as much as it excited me to watch.

I hang here, the voices still bleeding in my ears. I watch my shadow, solid like a murdered body's outline, and I pray. Maybe one more slice, just one more, will sever it forever.

My sincerest gratitude to the following:

Dorothy Allison, Astor, Bruce Benderson, Jimmy Bolton, Roddy Bottom, Cara Bruce, Sophie Canade, Novella Carpenter, Caviar, Michael Chabon, Tom Cheeks #1 web designer & Bradley, Godfrey Cheshire, Dennis Cooper, Missy Cooper, Henry Dunow, Mark Ewert, Judy Farkas, Film Maker Magazine, Alice (sweet teletubby) Fisher, Lee Fisher, Alona Fryman and all the Bloomsbury crew, Mary Gaitskill, Steve Gallagher, Denys Gawronski, Panagiotis Gianopoulos, Jane Gilday, Jill Harris, Jordan Heller & Shout Magazine, Susan Hoffman, June Horton & Dell, Hyper PR & Jessica Hooper, Travis Jeppesen, Daniel Johns, Mat Johnson, Kai, Mary Karr, Maggie Kaso & Family, Martha Keith, Ken@Giraffe-X, Bridget & Rachel Kessler, Jeff Koyen, Lisa Keeting, Gretchen Koss, Bruce LeRoy, Mary Lee LeRoy, Courtney Love, Lydia Lunch, Colin Midson, Howie Miura, Jay Mohr, Chris Monlux, Rose Marie Morse & co, No Hands Productions, Lewis Nordan, Benjie Nycum, NY Press, Liz Ogilvie, Sharon Olds, Dr. Terrence Owens & Family, Maragaret P., Genevieve Paiement, Mike Pitt, Paige Powell, Dr. Christine Rahimi, Tresa Redburn and Dept. 56, Karen Rinaldi & Joel Rose & Co., Jeremy Rizzi, Matthew Rolston, Lorelei Sharkey, Ira Silverberg, Tim Sommer, Tom Spanbauer, Speedie, Jerry Stahl, Matthew Stadler, Lauren Stauber, Laurie Stone, John Strausbaugh, Patti Sullivan, Superdrag, Ann Sweeney, Michelle Tea, Thor, J. Tomon, Peter Trachtenberg, Silke Tudor, Univ. Dist. Youth Center, Gus Van Sant, Danielle Vauthy, Suzanne Vega, Traci Vogel, Ayelet Waldman, John Waters, Joel Westendorf, David Wiegand, Eric Wilinski, Tobias Wolff, XY Magazine, Anny Ystenes, and all the folks in the Terminator2 yahoogroup.

JT LeRoy lives in California. He writes for
NY Press
,
Shout Magazine
and
The Face
. He is the author of the novel
Sarah
. His homepage is
www.jtleroy.com
. His email is
[email protected]
. He still enjoys playing whiffle ball.

First published in Great Britain 2001
This electronic edition published 2010

Copyright © 2001 by JT LeRoy

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages

Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 36 Soho Square, London W1D 3QY

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 9781408806692

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